


Like A Distress Flare

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Actor AU, Bodyguard!AU, Connor Is A Mess, Happy Ending, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Kinda?, M/M, Slow Burn, Whump, mild emotional instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:11:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: Hank is, arguably, one of the best in the field. He has over a decade of experience in protecting A-list celebrities, and a stellar background as a detective before that. He’s also not too humble to admit he’s the most sought-after bodyguard in the firm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a delightful, trope-filled one-shot birthday fic for blackeyedblonde. And then this happened.

Hank doesn’t often like his clients. It comes with the job - spend your days trailing behind celebrities, you start to realise most of them are entitled, conceited, and usually incredibly dense. But he does his job, and he does it _well_.

Which is why Hank is, arguably, one of the best in the field. He has over a decade of experience in protecting A-list celebrities, and a stellar background as a detective before that. He’s also not too humble to admit he’s the most sought-after guard in the firm.

“Connor, this is Hank Anderson, he’s the bodyguard SecureLife sent.”

Hank steps further into the office, coming to stand next to Mr Manfred. He takes in his client who’s curled up on a sofa with a thick copy of a script, feet tucked under him.

Hank can name anyone worth knowing in the entertainment scene, and some who aren’t. He has to - you can’t navigate the personal lives of A-list talent unless you know the pecking order.

Connor Stern is at the top of it. One of the most hallowed young stars of tinseltown, shot to fame almost overnight. From doing local theatre in his hometown to being cast in one small indie movie that unexpectedly caught the attention of critics, and over the past two years Stern had become the most sought after actor for Oscar-bait dramas.

Hank has seen some of his work. He’s good. Certainly worthy of the fame. Worthy of the public adoration too - Stern doesn’t quite have the raw masculinity that some of his more action-oriented peers do, but he’s pretty in a way that appeals to the target audience. Tall and slender with the kind of features that make him look open and vulnerable on screen. Tabloids and fashion magazines have waxed poetic about his dark eyes and pale skin, his pink lips, the curl on his forehead which he could probably trademark by now. _Snow White_ , Vogue had nicknamed him, somewhat condescendingly, and it had stuck. Hank can see the appeal.

And that’s about the extent of Hank’s information on him. Stern has a reputation for being almost obsessively private, keeping talk-show appearances to a minimum and having an odd knack for avoiding the packs of paparazzi clamoring to get a salacious snapshot of him.

All Hank knows is the timeline of his career, his name and age (30, just turned this past August), and that he hates bodyguards.

That last fact he discerns from the way Stern’s face crunches up before he groans, throwing the script aside.

“Markus, I told you not to do this,” he wheedles, and his manager makes a gesture that’s wholly unapologetic.

“Well, you can duke it out with Hank here, because the contract has already been signed,” Manfred says, and then turns to Hank.

“Connor will give you the specifics of what he wants from you, aside from things already stipulated in the contract. I have to run, it was nice to meet you.”

Hank shakes his hand one last time, and watches Manfred hurry out the door, already pulling out his phone.

He turns back to face Stern, who’s watching him with an unreadable look on his face.

“I just want to be clear,” Stern says, moving to sit up properly. He’s not wearing shoes, his socked feet sinking into the plush carpet. “I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t like people following me around, and I think Markus is over-reacting.”

“I’ve seen the emails, Mr. Stern,” Hank says, voice even. “The threats seem quite serious.”

Stern makes a frustrated sound, covering his face for a moment. When he looks up again, there’s a light flush on his cheeks.

“Call me Connor, please. If you’re going to stick around - which, knowing Markus, I don’t really have a say in - I’d rather you didn’t act like a lackey.”

Hank frowns. He prefers the professionalism of last names - and most of his clients require it, drawing an unspoken line in hierarchy between themselves and Hank. But in the end it’s the client’s wishes that come first.

“If you’d like,” Hank says.

Stern eyes at him in silence, lips pursed.

“Alright,” he eventually says, tone reluctant. “So I guess we’re stuck with each other until Markus comes to his senses and realises no one is trying to kill me.” Then he seems to perk up, and grabs the script again. “Hey, you any good at test reads?”

 

 

“It’s stupid,” Connor says as they stroll down the Santa Monica pier two weeks later, tearing pieces off his corn dog while Hank gives him the hairy eyeball. “No one wants to kill me. Markus is just paranoid. I get hundreds of death threats every year.”

Hank stops him in the middle of the parking lot and grabs the corn dog. “Eat like a normal person,” he snaps, handing the food back once Connor gives him the puppy eyes, looking like a fool in his so-called disguise of a baseball cap and a hoodie. “And do you ever listen to yourself speak? That many death threats, and this is the one Markus decides to take personally? Shouldn’t that tell you something.”

Connor shrugs, taking a careful bite of the corn dog. “He’s my agent, he’s protecting an investment.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little unflattering to say?”

Connor sighs, slumping a little. “Look, I love Markus, he’s my best friend, but he’s also known to be a little overbearing. I’m not exactly a controversial figure.”

Hank resists the urge to grab Connor’s shoulders and give him a good shake. He’s lost track on how many times they’ve had this argument.

A gaggle of teenaged girls walk by, whispering and giggling, and take pictures with their phones. A brave one separates from the group and approaches them timidly, gripping a pen so hard her knuckles go white.

“Connor? I mean, Mr Stern?” She says, blushing furiously and looking like she’s about to faint.

Connor puts on his fan smile, turning to face her with a cheerful greeting. “Hi! Did you want a picture? My _assistant_ here can take one,” he says, giving Hank a grin that makes Hank want to deck him.

“Oh, if it’s not too much - I don’t want to impose on your day off, I know you guys are shooting in town,” the girl starts to ramble, and then falls silent when Connor takes her phone and hands it to Hank. Her friends are watching from a distance, and Hank knows from experience they’ll join in once they gather the courage.

“Now, Hank, it’s the big circle at the bottom,” Connor says, tone similar one would use with a particularly dense child. Hank stops himself from flipping him off.

“Say cheese,” he grumbles, and the girl and Connor smile.

“Thank you so much,” the girl says, her eyes brimming with honest to god tears. “Could- could you sign my phone case?” she says, voice trembling. Connor gives her a one-armed hug.

“Of course. What’s your name?”

“Jessica.”

That’s when the rest of them finally decide that it’s okay after all to bother an A-lister on his rare day off, and Hank is on the verge of ripping his hair off. A bunch of teenagers are hardly the biggest threat, but it makes him nervous when Connor spends a lot of time around strangers outside of the carefully managed sets and studios.

They all get their pictures taken and various items signed, and Connor hugs them all, patient and oozing the kind of sincerity Hank has no idea how he has the energy to produce.

Eventually the girls leave, a whirlwind of laughter and squealing and _omigosh_ es. Connor waves to them, and then loops his arm around Hank’s, firm enough that Hank can’t wriggle free without making a scene. Connor might look like he’s built like a stick-figure, but he follows a rigorous exercise routine.

“Better than paparazzis,” Connor says, pleased.

“You really like that shit, huh?” Hank doesn’t understand it. Having people constantly in your personal space, demanding your free time, recording your every moment. He’s had a taste of it before, with other clients, but Connor’s by far been the worst.

“Well, they’re the ones I do this for. Without them I wouldn’t have a career,” he says easily.

“I thought you do it for the multi-million paycheck,” Hank grumbles. Connor laughs, letting go of Hank to turn to face him.

“My, Mr Anderson, you really are a cynic.”

“Took you this long to notice, huh? Good thing you’re pretty,” he says, and then immediately regrets the joke when Connor gives him a look, the sly, seductive one that’s one of the main reasons he’s so hot among young women.

“Ahh, fuck off,” Hank growls. Connor laughs, a pleasant peal of a sound that never ceases to make Hank feel a little warm.

He hears the squeal of tyres before he sees the car. It’s a black, battered SUV with tinted windows, and it’s heading straight towards them, going faster than any sane person would in a crowded parking lot.

Hank leaps forward and winds his arms around Connor, spinning them around and shoving Connor forwards towards two parked cars. He feels the car clip his back, sending him tumbling to the ground, but all he’s truly aware of is Connor, safe and whole, draped dazedly over the trunk of a stationary car.

Connor recovers quickly, rushing to Hank and helping him up.

There’s a thump and a shattering sound, and they look in the direction of the car as it exists the lot and enters the highway, peeling off and burning rubber as it goes. The back window has a gigantic spider web fracture on it.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks, eyes wide as Hank dusts himself off, hair falling out of its ponytail. His hands are a little scraped up, the elbow of his button down torn, and his back hurts something fierce, but he’s in one piece.

“That was intentional,” Hank growls. “You ready to listen Markus now?”

Connor stares at him, looking a little poleaxed, but before he can reply, one of the girls from before runs up to them.

“Oh my God, that was crazy!” she says, face pale and eyes wild. “They didn’t have any plates, but I threw my phone at them! Broke their window!” She announces victoriously. Hank is starting to warm up to her.

Connor gives her a shaky smile. “That was good thinking, Jessica,” he says, and some of the colour returns to her cheeks at the mention of her name.

Hank calls the local police, giving them a description and direction the car headed to. A fractured window is going to make them easier to spot. When he ends the call Connor is still talking to Jessica, and he motions to Hank.

“Hank here will take your contact information so we can get you set up with a new phone,” he says, and Hank nods. It seems like the fair thing to do.

“Are you like his security guard?” Jessica asks, peering at him. “You looked like a secret agent when you pushed Mr Stern to safety.”

Hank rubs at his neck, his own face heating up. “Sure, kid. You could call me that.”

She just gives him a wide-eyed look, and he has to remind her about the phone. He takes her number down (“Well, I mean, it’s my mom’s number, but since my phone is in pieces somewhere over there,” she rattles, and Hank is a little endeared) and with a final hug from Connor she bounces off to join her friends.

“Future of the world, huh?” Hank muses, watching them walk away.

“Told you they’re not all bad. I’m lucky to have fans like that,” Connor says, fondness clear in his voice.

Hank rounds on him, grabbing his arms to ground him.

“You’re going to start taking this seriously,” he says sternly. He and Connor have argued about the necessity of Hank’s presence for the past two weeks, but Hank’s done with Connor’s flippant attitude.

Connor avoids his eyes, glancing at the rip in Hank’s shirt. He draws in a long breath.

“Fine,” he says, sounding defeated. “I guess Markus was right.”

“And?”

Connor glares at him. “Yes, _you_ were right too.”

“Thank you,” Hank says smugly.

 

 

Turns out Connor hadn’t even bothered to look at the emails. They sit in his penthouse hote room, Connor holding a glass of wine that would cost Hank half a week’s salary, but is free to Connor. The things advertisers send him.

Markus sits in a plush armchair, elbows on his knees as he watches Connor read, his eyes occasionally flickering over to Hank. Hank had seen the messages before he’d even met Connor, has read them enough times to know them almost by heart.

“ _I’m going to make sure you’ll go down beloved, like the stars before you,_ ” Connor reads out loud, startling Hank out of his funk. “ _Your fans deserve you as pure, and I can give them that. I can keep you clean for them, you fucking whore, I know what you are. I will punish you, and you will beg to be absolved, and then you’ll be pure again, bathed in blood._ ”

His voice shakes, and he takes a gulp of his wine, hands unsteady as he sets the glass down. He scrolls down the page, skimming over the sections Hank knows are even worse, even more detailed and brutal and disturbed. When he looks up at Hank and Markus the look in his eyes is nothing short of heart-breaking.

“I can’t believe someone would-” he breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them again. “I know not everyone likes me, but I don’t understand…” He trails off, looking lost, and Hank makes a mental note to not let him have any more wine.

“The pattern was different from the usual stuff that gets caught in the net,” Markus says softly. “The letters had been mailed through a third-hand service, and the IP address on the emails leads to a proxy server. There’s nothing that confirms what happened to day is related, but Josh feels the level of obsession and the regularity of the messages is a cause for concern.”

“It’s just a some fucking whacko,” Hank says. “Doesn’t make them less dangerous, but you can’t take it personally.”

Connor lets out a humourless laugh. “Not take it personally? Listen to this - “ _You don’t deserve what you have, you’re a diseased slut selling yourself to capitalism. I will take great joy in hacking off every-_ ”

“I’ve read it, thanks,” Hank snaps, standing up and marching over to slam the laptop shut. “If you think any of this can be traced back to something you’ve done to trigger this kind of insanity, you’re wrong.”

“Hank’s right,” Markus says, standing up and straightening his clothes. “People like this… If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else. Anything can set them off - you wore a certain coloured shirt, you looked right while being interviewed, you were giving a secret illuminati gesture during a photoshoot,” he says, exasperated, and at least it gets a genuine laugh from Connor. Markus ruffles his hair, a brotherly gesture that Connor resigns himself to with a grimace.

“Get some sleep. Hank, you’re staying, right?”

“It’s what you pay me for.”

Markus leaves them, and they sit in silence, Connor nursing his wine.

“It’s funny,” he murmurs, not looking at Hank. “I haven’t even _had_ sex in…” he pauses, brows furrowed. “18 months.”

Hank rubs at the bags under his eyes. “I don’t think they really care about whether you’re as pure as the driven snow, kid. You can’t reason with crazy. They don’t hate _you_ , they hate some fictional version of you that their deluded mind has cooked up.”

“I guess you’d know,” Connor says wearily, looking at Hank under his lashes. He looks so young with his doe-eyes and boyish features. Too young to be dealing with the reality of someone hating him enough to want him dead.

“Well, no-one’s died under my watch yet,” Hank says, giving him a wry smile, and Connor huffs, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Eventually Connor gets up, setting the glass down.

“I’m going to bed. You’ll be next door?” He says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Next door means the bedroom next to his, not the next hotel room - not that there is one on this floor. It’s where Hank’s been staying, but this is the first time Connor has done anything to suggest that the arrangement is desirable.

“I’ll leave my door open,” Hank says gently. “In case you need anything.”

Connor blushes, a fetching shade on him, before nodding and disappearing into this room.

Hank stays up a little longer, just until he hears Connor complete his evening routine and sees the light under the crack of his door turn off. He tidies up while he waits, a pointless nervous habit consider the maid comes regularly, but it gives him something to do. He washes Connor’s glass and a few other stray dishes, and puts away the expensive wine. He pours himself a sip, decides it’s not much better than any mid-range bottle, and then washes his own glass.

He ends up reading the emails again in bed, for the first time since he agreed to be Connor’s handler. It’s much worse now that he considers he knows Connor a little. He’s seen a lot of unhinged behaviour during his career, both in the force and in the private sector, but this guy is definitely up there.

He tries to visualise the person who’s sending the emails, but it’s like grasping at smoke. But the further he reads, a thought begins to form.

“ _You’re a whore, and I will correct you... God loves you, I will show you this... You will die and you will be loved, perfect... You are all the evil of the materialistic world, you’re the ruination of our planet... A sick disease born of fame and money... I thought you loved me, how could you betray me like this?.. Your head will look so pretty on my pillow, and birds will eat your eyes…_ ”

He types out an email, addressing it to Markus.

“ _Something occurred to me about the messages, feel free to forward to the cops: Don’t you think the crazy is a little textbook? Guy swings from religious fervor to zeitgeist to idolising Connor. Not to mention the kinda trite violent imagery. Food for thought._ ”

He turns off his bedside lamp and rolls onto his side. His back still aches, but it’s only in the muscles, and he’ll be damned if he uses Connor’s pampering services over a bruise. Eventually he falls into fitful sleep.

 

In the morning the story breaks. Someone has sent blurry footage shot from across the parking lot to entertainment channels, and by breakfast the whole country knows movie star Connor Stern was almost the victim of an assumed murder attempt.

“Well, we knew it was going to happen sooner or later,” Markus sighs, turning off the TV.

Connor looks miserable, curled up on the sofa in sweats.

“I don’t want to shoot today,” he says, shoulders hunched. Hank looks at him, surprised. He’s witnessed Connor’s insane work ethic first-hand, even after only knowing him for two weeks. It’s almost unfathomable that he’d call things off.

Markus runs a hand over his face. “It’ll set production back weeks. We only have permission to film on the street today, and closing off the roads is going to eat a hole in the budget.”

Connor sits mutely, playing with a frayed string on the hem of his shirt.

“Connor…” Markus says softly.

Hank has seen this before. The reality of a serious death threat sinking in often comes with emotional shock that’s hard to cope with. For Connor, who lives for his fans as much as the artistry, it’s devastating. There are dark bags under his eyes, and he’d confessed he’d barely slept, plagued by nightmares.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Connor says, looking beseechingly at Hank.

Hank sighs, rubbing at his beard. He hates judgement calls like this. Knows a bad one can ruin the company’s reputation - the entertainment industry is brutal on security companies that bankrupt movies. But the client’s safety comes first, and it’s not something Hank will ever compromise on.

“You might want to consult men smarter than me,” he says slowly. “But I don’t think an attack in the middle of a secured set is likely,” he says slowly, and Markus perks up. “But I can’t in good conscience guarantee your safety. If you ask me, I’d lay low for a while.”

Markus sighs, but to his credit he seems to give in. “Alright. If you feel unsafe, we’ll call today off,” he says, giving Connor a wane smile.

Hank knows Markus is walking on a tightrope himself, balancing between what’s best for his friend’s safety and career. But something hot still rears its head.

“You’re the one who hired me,” he says, voice low, looking at Markus in the eye. “Connor’s finally taking this seriously, and now you want to start playing with fire.”

“He’s doing his job,” Connor says softly. “He’s looking out for me. Both of you are, I know that.” He chews on his bottom lip, lost in thought for a moment.

“You’d be there, right?” He finally says, looking at Hank.

Hank balks, sitting up straight. “Yes. But I can’t be next to you when you’re filming, you know that.”

Connor nods, seemingly lost in thought. Markus and Hank wait, eyeing each other.

“Let’s just do it,” Connor says finally, and Hank groans.

“You’re like a fucking weather-wane,” he huffs, and Connor grins.

“That’s my prerogative as a certified star,” he says. At least he’s not moping around like a kicked dog anymore.

Hank would like to keep it that way.

 

Hank hates shooting on location. Crowds of people rubberneck along the fences that aren’t nearly sturdy enough to keep anyone back. Paparazzi flock nearby, trying to get the latest shots to spoil the movie with. And Connor out in the open, only shielded by some equipment vans during breaks in filming. Hank spends the day hovering, drinking shitty coffee (clearly the budget didn’t go into catering), driving the director insane by standing as close to Connor as he can without actually being in the shot.

Connor himself is in top form. Perhaps the stress of the recent events has given him new energy, but breezes with heart-wrenching sincerity through the dream sequence, and then the heart-wrenching real-time argument with his jilted lover. Connor’s co-star is Alexis North, a controversial figure in the tabloids, which means Hank likes her automatically. Her crackling energy is the perfect contrast to Connor’s dreamy melancholy, and Hank knows that whatever else becomes of the movie, they’ll both get accolades for their performances.

Both scenes are shot in the middle of an abandoned street between skyscrapers and end up finished in record time. Connor looks exhilarated afterwards, reviewing the footage with North and the director, all three of them gushing over each other until Hank is about ready to puke.

Usually Connor spares time for his fans, going around the perimeter to give autographs and shaking hands, even engaging in small talk. This time he allows Hank to drag him away to the car, giving a sad, apologetic wave to the crowd chanting for him, alternating between his name and “Snow White” while waving pictures of him.

Whatever good mood his stellar performance has brought, it has evaporates quickly as they climb into the SUV. Connor stares out of the tinted window, watching the sunset.

Hank studies him, thinking not for the first time that for all of his approachability and open, warm smiles, there’s a distance to Connor he can’t seem to be able to bridge. Connor is one of the most generous stars Hank has had as clients - he gives large sums to charities, has paid off student loans of young fans struggling with finances, cuts down his own pay if he thinks a movie deserves to be made despite the small budget.

Connor is, by most definitions, one of the best men Hank has ever met. Yet despite his jovial attitude on sets, always looking after less prominent actors, not to mention the crew - despite the time he devotes to his fans, despite his clean lifestyle and somewhat homely habits, Connor strikes Hank as unbearably lonely.

Connor is 30, one of Hollywood’s biggest rising stars, and by any measure a good-looking man. In the few weeks Hank has been with him, he hasn’t gotten a single personal visit. Not a single phone call that hasn’t been about work. No lunch dates, no care packages, none of the usual signs of affection from family and friends that the people Hank usually spends his time around get.

Connor’s getting death threats, and aside from Markus, not a single friend has stopped by to offer support.

Hank’s has come to realise that the reputation Connor has in the media for being very private about this personal life is simply because he lacks one.

Connor notices him staring and turns to face him. The way the light of the setting sun falls on his face makes his brown eyes glow honey, and he shields his face with a hand, blinking like he’s waking from a dream. He smiles at Hank, just a tilt at the corner of his pink mouth, but genuine.

“Do I have something on my face?” He says, and Hank blinks slowly. Something wells in his chest, sentimental and warm.

“No. Your face is perfect,” he says easily, tone flippant. Connor laughs, his eyes narrowed.

 _Why are you so lonely?_ Hank wonders to himself. _Who would ever be stupid enough to let you go?_

Connor’s smile, bright and sweet, offers no answers.

 

Back at the hotel, safe and sound in the penthouse, they spend the evening binging on a comedy show, both of them only half paying attention. Hank is emailing Markus about the investigation progress (minimal), Connor is finishing his gigantic puzzle, an image of a mountain scenery.

“I still think you’re insane,” Hank mutters, watching Connor organise the remaining pieces. Connor flips him off, grinning, and places another piece in the correct place.

“It helps me concentrate. You should try it.”

“I’m probably better off sticking to the 20 piece ones, thanks.”

Connor sits up and levels him a look that makes Hank feel restless.

“Why do you always sell yourself short?” Connor asks, and Hank’s eyebrows climb to his hairline.

“Excuse me?” He asks, sitting up straight - an old, defensive habit.

Connor shrugs, flipping a puzzle piece in his fingers.

“You say these things… Pretending like you’re stupid, or slow, or over-the-hill,” he says quietly. “But I know you can’t have become one of the most sought after bodyguards in the Western hemisphere if you didn’t have a good head on you. I know you were a decorated cop, before. And I’ve seen it too, myself. I know you’re smart. I just don’t know why you act like you’re stupid,” he says, frowning.

Hank gapes at him, speechless. He clears his throat, looking around for something so save him. Eventually he shrugs, leaning back into the sofa.

“Old habit, I guess. Sometimes it helps when people underestimate you. Especially in this profession it pays if you can get people to forget you’re there. Fade into the background. Lets you learn things people wouldn’t tell you otherwise.”

Connor nods. “What have you learned about me?”

Hank tilts his head back, looking down at Connor.

 _Nothing_ , he thinks. _You don’t let anyone close enough for them to have anything to tell._

“That,” he says, “is for me to know and you to find out.”

Connor makes a face, his face crunching up in a way Hank finds unbearably cute.

 

 

He calls his ex wife from bed.

“ _I saw the news. I see you’re still out there throwing yourself in harm’s way,_ ” she says wearily.

“You know full well that’s not the norm,” Hank sighs.

“ _Maybe not, but you’re still doing it, knowing perfectly well you’d take a bullet for them._ ”

“Can we not do this tonight?” Hank growls. “It’s been a long day.”

“ _It’s like you’re still trying to self-destruct,_ ” Addy says with the venom of someone once married to a cop.

“You can be such a bitch sometimes,” Hank says. Addy doesn’t reply, and the silence stretches between them, painful and frayed.

“ _Do you want to talk to him?_ ”

“Well I sure as fuck didn’t call just to exchange these pleasantries with you,” Hank grouses, but she laughs, knowing better than to take his temper personally.

There’s a moment of silence, followed by shuffling, and then a small voice carries over through the speaker.

“ _Hey daddy,_ ” Cole says, breathy with excitement.

“Hey buddy,” Hank smiles, something in him settling at ease. “How are you?”

He listens to the bubble of Cole’s voice, letting his son speak uninterrupted, a six-year-old’s stream of consciousness soothing him. He makes the appropriate sounds of over a tale about a petting zoo, praises his son when he talks about how gently he petted a koala, how he got to feed the horses, how there was a little lamb, small and soft and just a baby still. He aches to hold Cole, to wrap him in a hug and keep him safe from all the bad things in the world.

“ _When are you coming to visit?_ ” Cole asks, voice so hopeful Hank’s chest grows tight with regret.

“Soon, buddy,” Hank says gently. “When it’s your birthday. Do you remember when that is?”

“ _Five weeks,_ ” Cole says proudly.

“That’s right. Five weeks, and I’ll be there.”

“ _Can we go for ice cream?_ ”

“Sure we can. Though I’m sure you can go have ice cream before that,” Hank says, smiling into the receiver.

“ _But I wanna go with you,_ ” Cole says, a hint of a whine in his voice. Something hot wells behind Hank’s eyes, and he blinks, drawing in a soft breath.

“ _Why can’t you come visit all the time?_ ” Cole asks, petulant now.

“You know why, son. You and mummy and Matt live a long way away. Do you remember when you visited grandpa and grandma for Christmas? It was a long flight.”

Cole sighs, put-upon. “ _And we went back in time._ ”

Hank laughs, rubbing a palm over his heart. “That you did. Daddy will have to travel forward in time to come see you. A whole half a day.”

“ _That sucks,_ ” Cole says, sulky.

“I know it does. I miss you a lot, rugrat,” Hank says gently.

“ _I miss you too, daddy,_ ” Cole says brightly. Hank hears him press a kiss to the phone, probably leaving a wet print on it, and then Addy’s back.

“ _Hey. I’m sorry,_ ” she says softly.

“It’s not your fault,” Hank sighs. It’s true, he supposes. Or at least he’s forgiven her.

“ _I was thinking he could come stay with you for Christmas break. We’ll have to save up for the flights, but if you’re up for it-_ ”

“I’ll send you the money,” Hank says immediately, happiness rising in him. “It’d mean a lot to me.”

“ _I know. We’ll talk about it when you’re here,_ ” she says. “ _And Hank… Please take care of yourself._ ”

 

He sleeps soundly that night.


	2. Chapter 2

There are no further incidents for several days. Connor gains back his confidence and Hank’s hair turns even greyer every time Connor insists on spending time in crowds of fans.

The SUV is found abandoned in an empty lot. The prints come up empty, and the car’s trail ends after too many shady sales with no paperwork to them.

Hank keeps hovering and sleeping with his door open.

The insulating bubble around Connor seems to shrink, day by day. They spend nearly every waking moment together, and while it sometimes grates on Hank’s solitary nature, Connor seems to enjoy it. On the rare occasions Hank withdraws to his room for some privacy, Connor will seek him out after half an hour, like clockwork.

Hank would tell him off, but he can’t bring himself to turn the kid away, not when Connor comes to him with that vulnerable look in his eyes, expecting to be rejected.

They start a new puzzle together. The box art shows the Golden Gate bridge in bright colours, and Connor shows him how to best organise the pieces.

 

“Don’t you ever go out?” Hank asks one evening, staring at a scarlet piece that he can’t place on the picture.

Connor shrugs, fitting two pieces in quick succession. “I don’t like the pictures ending up in newspapers.”

“Is that the only reason.”

“How do you mean?”

Hank sits up, laying his piece down on the table. “Connor,” he says carefully. “You need to get out a bit. Be with people your own age. Socialise.”

Connor frowns, fiddling with a puzzle piece, a nervous habit Hank has learned to spot. “I socialise,” he says defensively.

“Fans and people at work don’t count,” Hank huffs.

“Do you count?” Connor asks, looking at Hank under his lashes.

“I’m paid to be here,” Hank says matter-of-factly. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Connor looks at his lap, mouth turned down like a slash of hurt across his face.

“I see,” he says, voice lacking inflection.

“Connor-” Hank starts, trying to find the right words. Connor stands up abruptly, wiping his hands on his slacks.

“Let’s go then,” he says, marching towards the door and grabbing his coat on the way.

“Wait, go where,” Hank splutters, rushing to follow him. Connor’s already out the door and calling the elevator.

“Hey, don’t run off like that,” Hank snaps, catching up to him as he enters the elevator. “Where are we going?”

“Out. You said I should, so let’s go,” Connor says, tone daring Hank to argue with him. He stares at the elevator doors, like Hank’s not even there.

“You want to go out now?” Hank says incredulously. “It’s fucking ass-o’clock! I’m too old for this shit.”

“It’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?” Connor says snidely, and Hank stares at him, angry and speechless.

“That’s not- you know that’s not-” he stammers, but then the doors open and Connor’s walking towards the doors, the concierge scrambling towards them to fulfil all of Mr Sterns hopes and dreams.

“We’re not going, I can’t fucking protect you if you pull shit like this,” Hank hisses while they wait for the car to be brought around.

“I want to go to the Gold Lion,” Connor tells the driver, and Hank googles it frantically. It’s a club in West Hollywood, and some of Hank’s nerves are calmed by the website’s reassurances of exclusivity and a photography ban.

Connor clams up during the limousine drive. His jaw is clenched tight as he stares out at the lit-up city, ignoring Hank like a sulking child. It’s a side of him Hank has never been before, and he doesn’t know how to handle him this way.

“I’m sorry, alright,” he says, exasperated. “Can we please go back to the hotel?”

Connor remains silent, posture rigid in his seat.

“I’m- you’re not just a client. We’re friends,” Hank says weakly. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Connor’s eyes flicker over to him, just for a moment, before he turns away again.

Hank curses when his phone rings. It’s Markus.

“ _Where the fuck are you and why doesn’t Connor have his phone on him?_ ”

Hank glances at Connor who’s now watching him with a hint of glee in his expression.

“I didn’t know he didn’t take it. He- we’re going out,” Hank says, glaring at Connor who acts unfazed. “There’s a club, I checked it out and it’s-,”

“ _You’re going clubbing?!_ ” Markus yells, and Hank pulls the phone away from his ear. “ _Are you insane? He has a press junket tomorrow, he can’t show up hungover!_ ”

“It’s not gonna fucking destroy his squeaky clean image if he shows up less than perfect for once,” Hank snaps.

He never hears Markus’s retort, because the phone is yanked out of his grip.

“Hello, Markus,” Connor says cheerfully. “Hank said I should get out and socialise more, so that’s what I’m doing. I’ll call you in the morning.”

And with that he opens the car window, and before Hank has a chance to stop him, he throws the phone out.

Hank’s blood boils. Whatever Connor’s problem is, this has gone too far.

“That was my fucking phone, in case you forgot,” he growls. Connor regards him coolly, a serene smile on his face.

“So I’ll get you a new one.”

“You can’t replace the personal things I have on there,” Hank yells, face burning with anger.

“I know full well you back-up your phone every day,” Connor says smugly. “And there’s no need to shout, I can hear you perfectly.”

“That’s not the point, you arrogant piece of shit,” Hank growls, and Connor’s careful exterior falters. “You can’t treat other people’s shit like that!”

“What are you going to do about it?” Connor laughs. “You’re paid to be here, remember?”

It hits Hank like a sledgehammer, what Connor is doing. How fucking _desperate_ Connor must be to maintain that carefully constructed wall.

Hank had been allowed inside, and one small misstep had been enough to get him kicked to the curb.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, shifting a little on his seat.

“Connor,” he says gently, and Connor’s eyes widen with shock.

The limo pulls to a stop, and Connor fumbles for the door handle before the driver even has a chance to step out. Hank reaches out and grabs his wrist, wrapping his fingers around the delicate bones.

Connor freezes, staring at the point of contact. Then the door opens, and Connor jolts, and when he looks up at Hank there’s nothing but fear in his eyes.

“Let go of me,” Connor spits out, yanking himself free and all but throwing himself out onto the street.

Hank follows him past the crowd of people outside who have already spotted Connor and are calling his name. Phones are held up, and Hank resists the urge to smack them all down.

They’re waved through immediately, past the line of lesser humans who have to wait in line for a chance to get in. Hank spots a few B-list faces before the doors close behind them, and then his attention is fully on trying to keep up with Connor.

He’s been to clubs like these often enough that they’ve all begun to blend together. Everything is covered in glass and crystal and gold and velvet. There are chandeliers and neon lights, the music pumping loud with the latest billboard hits.

Connor makes a beeline towards a group of people, most of whom Hank recognises from fashion ads and movies. None of them Hank has heard particularly flattering things about.

They welcome Connor with shrill screams, awkward hugs and air kisses. Someone Hank vaguely recognises as the new face of whichever fashion house spots Hank, giving him a once over, taking in his boring uniform of slacks and a white button down. Hank wishes his hair was tied back, feeling irritatingly self conscious of his mop of uncombed hair.

“Is this the help?” the guy laughs, and Connor turns to glance at Hank.

“That’s my bodyguard,” he says dismissively, knocking back most of the drink someone has handed to him.

“How exciting,” says a girl dressed in a gold sequin number. Hank can’t place her, which could mean she’s someone’s date. Perhaps a politician’s kid, or just from a Fortune 500 family.

“Hey Con, I hear there was an attempt on your life,” a square-jawed man from an action franchise says, and Hank sees the way Connor’s shoulders stiffen.

“Welcome to the club, Snow White,” the guy continues, lifting his glass and grinning. “It’s an exclusive one.”

Connor gives an uncertain laugh, and suddenly Hank hates these people with a deep intensity.

“You’ve made your fucking point,” he growls, leaning close to Connor. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“And what is my point?” Connor says, grabbing a glass from the shot tray someone passes to them.

“That this isn’t your scene, and you’re right, you’re not like these people,” Hank says, watching Connor down the shot like it’s water.

Someone jostles past Hank, shoving into his shoulder without so much as an apology, and his temper flares even further.

“Or is it just that you’re so much better than us?” Connor says, his mouth twisting cruelly, and Hank wants to _slap_ him.

“There’s still a fucking a nut-case on your tail, in case you forgot,” Hank snaps, and Connor falters. Then he seems to steel himself, gesturing at the club.

“The security here is tighter than at Fort Knox,” he laughs. “Live a little, Anderson.”

The use of his last name feels like an insult, even more so than Connor’s dismissive tone.

 

There’s not much Hank can do barring hauling Connor out physically, and that would create a commotion no one could stop from reaching the tabloids.

Connor drinks fast, and turns into someone Hank hates. Vapid and shallow, laughing at the inane things his so-called friends say, comparing designer clothes and competing about salaries and fans. It makes Hank nauseous, this strange persona Connor is putting on to fit in with people he probably doesn’t even like. A few of them fawn over him, suggesting collaborations, hoping to use Connor to give their own careers a boost.

The drunker Connor gets the more out of control he is, and before long he has his tongue down some model’s throat. The woman has a wedding ring on her finger, a diamond so large it glints in the club lights. Hank has never known of Connor having had straight relationships, and he watches with a heaviness growing inside him as the woman tries to get her hand down his pants, Connor pulling it away each time.

He almost misses it, in the blinking neons and bright strobe lights, but there’s a flash the comes from somewhere to the side. He whirls around to spot someone with a camera held up high, and something in him _snaps_. It takes him two strides to reach the paparazzi, to grab the camera and slam it to the ground.

The guy shouts something that gets swallowed up by the music, and then there’s a fist swing at him. Hank ducks and throws his foot out to hook behind the man’s leg, bringing him down and pulling him in tight with an arm around his neck.

It’s over in a handful of seconds. Two burly security guards haul the man off of him and start dragging him towards the back exit, people hollering around them. Someone offers Hank a drink, and it takes all of his willpower to turn it down.

He turns around to see Connor staring at him, face ashen except for the red smear of lipstick across his mouth. The woman is gone, scared off by the photographer.

“We’re leaving,” Hank says. There’s no way Connor can hear him, but he nods, wiping his hand across his mouth.

Hank has to keep him steady for the short walk to the limo, but with the people trying to get photographs, it ends up looking like he’s shielding Connor.

In the car Connor is silent, and Hank doesn’t take his eyes off him for the whole ride. His eyes are glassy with alcohol, his jaw set tight.

 

Hank slams the hotel room door shut and storms past Connor, heading to the liquor cabinet. He shouldn’t, he fucking shouldn’t, not just for his job but because there’s always the risk that he won’t be able to stop at one, but he needs a drink right now.

Connor remains by the door, watching Hank in silence, swaying a little on his feet.

The whiskey is the expensive kind, but Hank doesn’t bother to stop to savour it. He pours himself a finger and drinks it in one go, and then pours another. He closes the bottle tightly and puts it away with conviction.

The crystal tumbler is cool in his hand as he sits down on the sofa. He feels bone-tired, worn out in a way that he hasn’t in years.

Connor moves unsteadily, using the furniture to keep himself upright as he comes to join Hank on the sofa.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” Hank says, voice low. He feels drained out of kindness.

“I know,” Connor says, swallowing thickly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Hank growls, anger flaring in him. “Risking your fucking life, risking your fucking image, because of… _What_? What is it that you’re lacking so much that made your want to make an ass out of yourself?” He says, harsher than he intends, pinning Connor down with his gaze.

Connor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He wrings his hands, face turned down, his face flushed red.

“ _Answer me!_ ” Hank demands, gripping his glass with both hands so he won’t throw it into a wall.

“I don’t know!” Connor shouts, and when he looks up his eyes are wet. “I don’t know, okay, I don’t know _what’s wrong with me_!” He yells, voice breaking, and Hank’s heart with it.

He sighs, putting his glass down. Connor’s drawing deep, shuddering breaths, his whole body trembling as he sits, body contained; knees pressed together, hands folded tightly in his lap, shoulders hunched.

“Connor,” Hank breathes, overcome with weariness.

Big, fat tears roll down Connor’s red cheeks, and the look he gives Hank, lost and vulnerable, drives away the last remnants of his anger.

“Christ, kid,” he murmurs, pulling Connor to him. Connor hooks his chin on his shoulder, arms around Hank’s neck. He heaves in a heavy gasp, hiccuping, and Hank puts a hand on the small of his back, reassuring him.

“Don’t make yourself sick,” he mutters, and Connor shakes his head, shivering with the intensity of whatever he’s working through. All Hank can do is hold him.

“I’m sorry,” Connor sobs, and Hank closes his eyes.

“Please don’t leave,” Connor whispers.

“I won’t,” Hank answers softly.

“Because you can’t.”

“Not even if I could.”

That seems to be good enough for now. Eventually Connor calms down, and slowly he pulls away a little until he can look Hank in the eye.

Connor looks like a mess - face tear-stained and red, eyes heavy from crying and the drinking. Hank can smell the alcohol on his breath. His arms are still around Hank’s neck.

It’s almost like looking into the future - he can see it happening a fraction of a second in advance, and then Connor closes his eyes and leans close, lips pressing against Hank’s.

Hank lets out a soft sound and grabs Connor’s arms, pushing him away.

“No, Connor,” he says gently, and Connor’s face falls.

“Why?” Connor pleads, voice small.

Hank brushes his palm along Connor’s damp cheek.

“You know why. You’re my client. I’m ancient. You’re drunk. You’re lonely. You’re scared.” _I’m scared_ , he thinks, carefully cataloguing the expression on Connor’s face.

“You don’t want me,” Connor says miserably.

“That’s unfair. You know that’s fucking unfair,” Hank says, frustrated as he moves to sit further from Connor. “Who wouldn’t want you?”

Connor tilts his head up, breathing deep.

“For me,” he says, and Hank frowns, lost for a moment. “I want someone to want me for _me_.”

“I-” Hank swallows. He wants. _God_ , but he wants. For both of their sakes he _can’t_.

He’s saved from answering when Connor makes a choking sound, and then he’s up and stumbling to the bathroom.

Hank listens to him retch, allowing him the dignity of facing the humiliation alone. He sits and stares at his glass of whiskey. One positive thing in this clusterfuck of a night is that he’s not even tempted to finish it.

He hears Connor flush and brush his teeth. While he waits he pours his drink down the drain, trying to make a quick calculation of how much money he’s just wasted.

He hears the bathroom door open, and Connor emerges. He looks miserable, pale and wrung out.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, and Hank winces at how raw his voice is.

Connor hesitates at his bedroom door.

“Will you leave the door open?”

Hank nods, smiling slightly. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Connor says, and then pauses for a moment. Hank waits, gut tightening.

“You-” Connor starts, eyes darting to Hank, and then he falls silent again.

“Nevermind. Goodnight, Hank.”

“Goodnight, Connor,” Hank murmurs. Connor’s door remains a few inches ajar.

 

 

Hank wakes up to the smell of coffee and bacon floating into his bedroom.

He pulls on a pair of sweats and a tee and lumbers out. Connor is sitting by the dining table, dressed in black jeans and a grungey grey band shirt.

“Is this your hungover look,” Hank asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Connor looks up from his phone, chewing on a piece of toast. He looks less miserable than Hank had expected - the advantages of puking the booze out that Hank knows too well first hand.

“No, this is my press junket look,” Connor says, eyes going back to his phone.

Hank piles his plate up with eggs, toast and bacon from the room service trolley, and sits opposite him.

“Do we need to talk about last night?” He asks, watching Connor.

“I’d rather we didn’t,” Connor mumbles, dodging his head down.

Good enough for Hank. There are things he doesn’t want to look too closely at, the memory of Connor’s mouth against his, fleeting, being the most prominent one.

The second one is the image of Connor’s tear-streaked face, and the way it had made his chest ache with something he hasn’t felt in years.

 

These press things are the rare places outside of the penthouse that Hank feels like he can relax in. The security is tight, press passes actually properly scanned, and Hank can stand behind Connor, as long as he moves aside for pictures.

He listens to Connor and the rest of the main cast talk about the movie, the shooting and the production process. He wishes he could see Connor’s face, enjoys how animated and eager the kid gets when he’s talking about the creative side of his job. They share funny anecdotes, some that Hank knows to be scripted or exaggerated, but nonetheless amusing to listen to. Nothing about Connor suggests he’d drank himself sick last night and then cried all over his bodyguard before upchuking his stomach contents.

Hank spaces out during the press questions. They’re always the same, regardless of who the talent is or what the movie is about.

“ _Can you tell us about how you get into character?”_

_“What’s your workout routine?”_

_"Is there a particular creative process you go through?_ ”

On and on it goes, Hank staring off into distance while Connor rambles off stock answers, trying to involve his co-stars, trying to encourage more original questions.

“I’m sure I ask on behalf of all our female subscribers, is there anyone special in your life?”

Hank jolts, searching for the source of that particular question. He spots a man wearing a tabloid rag pass, and makes a face.

Hank doesn’t need to see Connor’s face to guess at the deer-in-the-headlights look he’s wearing. Most reporters know better than to ask Connor about his personal life, and some of the man’s colleagues are making exasperated faces.

“Oh. Well, that’s not something I like to…” Connor trails off, looking to North awkwardly for help. Hank winces, because he knows exactly how that will read.

North, never hesitant to assert herself, slowly leans close to her microphone.

“We all like to keep our private lives just that - private,” she says, voice low and smooth. Hank can bet the look in her eyes is enough to make a grown man piss himself, and to his credit the tabloid reporter flinches back. He doesn’t give up easily though.

“Is there anything to the rumours about the chemistry you two have on screen leaking off the screen?” He says, waving a pen between Connor and North. Connor’s back goes ramrod stiff, and then the man says,

“It’s just, I hear rumours that Mr Stern is-”

That’s when Markus intervenes, grabbing the man’s microphone and waving at security. Hank’s grateful - it’s not part of his job description, but he’d been on the verge of vaulting himself over the table and taking out the trash himself.

Markus gets on the stage and grabs a microphone. “That’s all, we’re done here - and you can thank Mr. Reed and the Daily Exchange for that,” he says firmly, and there’s a collective groan from the crowd.

As soon as the room is empty, Connor slumps across the table, face hidden. North pats his back awkwardly, and Markus leans in to murmur something Hank can’t hear. Connor raises his head and gives Markus a smile, shaking his head minutely.

“Well, he’s fucking banned,” Markus mutters to Hank as he passes him by. Hank smirks, stepping forward to lay a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

“Alright, kid?”

Connor groans, giving him a look. “No. What a shit-show.”

“I thought it went fine until that last guy,” Hank says innocently.

North plays with her name sign, cheek propped up on one hand.

“Guy’s a fucking prick,” she says. “Don’t worry about it, Connor. They know better than to publish shit like that, you’re too well-liked,” she adds, winking.

One of the organisers steps up to tug on Hank’s sleeve.

“Sir, there’s something you might want to see,” he says, waving Markus over too. The walk to the back of the room, all the way to the final row of seats.

On one of the seats rests a sheet of paper. On it, in cut-and-pasted letters, taken from what looks like several different newspapers and magazines, is a message.

“ _I almost had you._ ”

Beneath the words is a grainy cell phone picture of Connor at the club, downing a shot.

“Get the fucking security footage, now,” Hank yells, his stomach sinking.

He looks over his shoulder towards the stage where Connor is now standing, staring right towards them, comprehension spreading on his face.

 

After that it’s a flurry of phone calls and barked orders. Hank has no control over the investigation, though the cop in him is clamouring to take charge. But he concedes it to Markus, who’s on the phone with the precinct handling Connor’s case.

“So get a fucking warrant,” Markus is saying, pacing between the rows of chairs. “I don’t fucking care, the fucker was right here!”

There’s a pause, Hank and Connor watching Markus grip the back of chair so hard the plastic warps.

“Just do your fucking jobs,” he snaps, and then he throws his phone into a wall.

“Shit,” Markus says, staring at the shattered phone.

“A lot of phones ending up smashed around you,” Hank says dryly, and Connor shoots him a dirty look.

“Mr. Stern, Mr. Manfred?” Someone says, and they all turn to stare at a nervous, gangly guy in the doorway.

“If you want to look at the junket footage..?”

The guy holds out a tablet, the screen displaying a clunky security camera interface. They watch the press file in, and the seat with the note gets occupied by a woman from a prominent fashion publication.

“Scrub to the end,” Hank says, and the guy obeys, fast-forwarding to when Markus cuts the event short.

People start to trickle out. The woman in the seat is amongst the first ones, her chair empty after she vacates it. A figure in a baseball cap and a grey hoodie walks past, dropping the note as he leaves.

“Who’s that?” Hank asks, looking at Markus and Connor, who look at each other and shake their heads.

“It’s impossible to tell without seeing his pass,” Connor says with frustration.

“Kinda looks like the janitor,” the guy holding the tablet says. “He’s kinda new, but we vet everyone we hire.”

Hope rears its head, and Hank grabs the guy’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “Will you let the cops take a look at the hiring forms without a warrant?”

The guy casts a nervous look at them, and nods hesitantly. “I’ll have to check with the manager, but I think so. I mean, this could be real bad publicity to us.”

“You got that fucking right,” Hank growls. He grabs Connor’s arm, steering him towards the exit.

“You’re calling off every cursed public appearance until we catch this asswipe,” he says quietly as they rush towards the car waiting for them. “Any filming that doesn’t absolutely need to be done is cancelled, and what we can’t postpone will be done with a skeleton crew.”

At least Connor doesn’t try to argue with him this time, just allows Hank to push him into the car. He’s looking a little dazed, and Hank allows him to sit close, their thighs and arms pressed together as they ride to the hotel.

 

Back at home Hank makes a beeline to his bedroom and to the safe locker embedded in the wall. Hank pulls out his holster and his gun and the magazine, along with a box of bullets. He opens the drawer of his bedside table and pulls out a tightly folded paper, tucking it inside his wallet.

“I should’ve been wearing this from the beginning,” he mutters to himself as he loads the magazine, fingers deft and sure with practice.

“Have you been carrying that around all this time?”

Hank startles, turning around. Connor is lingering in the doorway, watching Hank with a worried expression.

“No. California has no constitutional carry, had to jump through a few hoops to be allowed a permit here,” he grumbles, fiddling with his holster. He hates to wear a harness, but it’ll be easier to hide the bulk of his pistol under a jacket than on his hip.

“Not to mention they’re not allowed in certain places. Like ones that serve alcohol,” he adds, leveling Connor with a look.

Connor shifts, leaning against the door jamb. “I’m sorry, you know,” he says quietly.

“What, exactly, are you apologising for?” Hank asks wearily. He places the gun and the magazine on his bedside table.

Connor shrugs, looking at something just past Hank’s shoulder.

“Everything. For being such a- for acting the way I did. For putting you in that position.” He grips his own arm, as though shielding himself. “For the kiss.”

Hank breathes in through his nose, and then out again, and then he nods.

“Do you know how to shoot?”

Connor gives him a surprised look, derailed by the change of subject. “Not… In real life?” he says hesitantly. “We had an expert come in on _Cold Hearted_ , but…”

Hank nods. “Not a lot of gunslinging in drama, I guess.”

Connor laughs, stepping further into the room, as though he’s being pulled towards Hank.

“I’ll teach you,” Hank says, willing his pulse to calm down when Connor stops by his bed.

How easy it would be to grab him and push him down and climb over him. How satisfying it’d be to kiss him until the guards came crashing down.

“Just a precaution,” he adds, and then gestures to his gun. “Do not touch mine unless I’m around. Don’t test me on that”

Connor glances towards it, nodding.

“I hate those things,” he says, pulling a face. Hank laughs, because of-fucking-course Connor does.

“You’re too soft for your own damn good,” Hank says as he walks past Connor. He lifts his hand without thinking, nearly brushing his knuckles across Connor’s cheek, and yanks it back awkwardly.

Connor stares at him, lips parted, and then shrinks away and leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn’t take long for Connor to start getting cabin fever, unused to being shut in like this. It’s the pause from work that seems to be driving him up the wall and into Hank’s space instead.

Connor broadcasts his indecisiveness like a beacon. At times he seeks Hank out, pushing the boundaries of what’s acceptable by touching him at every turn - and then panicking, pulling away and circling Hank like a skittish kitten.

Hank finds it cute at first, and then it starts to put a strain on not just his nerves but his libido.

He calls in a favour, and books a private session at a nearby range for Connor, himself, and his gun.

“This is a magazine,” he says, pointing to the black rectangle on the table. “Those curved things full of cartridges that go into rifles in movies? _Those_ are clips. I’m going to teach you how to handle a pistol, and pistols have magazines.”

Connor nods, looking at the items with cool detachment, hands folded behind his back, like he’s scared something bad will happen if he touches anything.

Hank shows Connor how to load the gun safely and rack the slide to ready it, and while he’s at it, how to unload it.

“Magazine first,” he says, pointing. “Press the release button.”

Connor catches the magazine deftly, and then pulls the slide back briskly, emptying the chamber, letting the round fall to the ground just as Hank had shown.

“There you go,” Hank praises him, and the corner of Connor’s mouth twitches. “Not so scary, huh?”

“You don’t need to patronise me,” Connor says dryly. He hefts the now-empty gun in his hand.

“Weighs more than the fake ones we used,” he muses.

Hank hums. “Let’s give it a whirl, huh?” He says, leading Connor to towards the targets. He hands Connor a pair of ear mufflers, trying back his hair before placing his own mufflers over his head.

He lets Connor load the gun again on his own, making sure he doesn’t have any strange Hollywood habits ingrained to him.

“This is how they taught us,” Connor says, loud enough to carry through the mufflers. He brings the gun up and aims. Hank’s pleased to see his grip is proper, thumbs overlaid and finger resting along the side of the gun, not curled around the trigger.

“Your posture is awful,” Hank says, disapproval thick in his voice. He steps behind Connor to readjust his shoulders.

“Broaden your stance,” he orders, and Connor takes a shuffling step with one foot.

“No, like this,” Hank says, not thinking about what he’s doing and pressing one thigh between Connor’s, nudging his feet wider.

“O-oh,” Connor stammers, faltering a little, causing his back to press against Hank’s chest. Hank rests a hand on Connor’s hip to balance him, and then removes it like stung, stepping back.

He clears his throat, trying to keep his thoughts coherent.

“Safety off,” he instructs, and Connor flicks the switch.

Connor takes his sweet time aiming, but when he finally moves his finger to the trigger and squeezes it, firing off a round, it at least hits the target.

“Keep going until it’s empty,” Hank instructs. Connor nods, and fires off the rest of the rounds steadily, taking some time to correct his aim between each shot.

Once the magazine is empty, Hank watches with something akin to pride as Connor ejects it, and then checks the chamber before engaging the safety.

“You’re scattered,” Hank says, moving to stand by Connor’s side. He cups Connor’s hands in his, raising the gun slowly. “Look at the target. Then at the front sight, and only then align the rear sight.”

Connor lets out frustrated sound as he peers down the gun.

“You’re bending your elbows too much,” Hank says. He takes the gun away, resting it on the table next to the empty magazine. He takes off his ear protection, Connor following suit, and moves to stand behind Connor.

“Like this,” he murmurs, running his palms down Connors arms until he’s cupping his hands. Hank guides them up, pressing Connor’s palms together like he’s still holding a gun.

“Keep your legs wide, knees bent, and lean forward.”

It’s a bad judgement call. Connor leans his upper body forward, and Hank’s hold on his hands pulls him with him until they’re chest to back, Hank’s hip slotted against the curve of Connor’s ass.

“Like this?” Connor asks, craning his neck to look at Hank. For a moment their eyes meet, something electric thrumming between them.

Hank swallows, nodding, unable to look away from Connor’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s.. you’re doing good, Connor,” he says quietly.

Connor stands up straight, his back rubbing against Hank’s front. Hank knows he needs to step back, to cleave back the space between their bodies, but he’s frozen in place.

Connor turns, slowly, as though they’re in a dream. Hank can’t look away from his face, from the dark fan of his lashes shadowing his doe eyes. Connor’s lips are parted, a sweet invite that Hank wants to accept.

Connor cups a palm behind Hank’s neck, tugging gently, and Hank lets him.

There’s no kiss. Connor pulls him down until their foreheads touch, and breathes in deep.

“I want to, so bad,” he whispers. Hank lets out a breath, pulling away gently.

“You don’t know what you want,” he says, tucking away the cowlick on Connor’s brow. “But it sure shouldn’t be me.”

Something angry flashes in Connor’s eyes. “That’s not up to you,” he says. “I make my own choices.”

“You don’t always make the smartest ones.”

“Fuck you,” Connor says, but the heat has gone out of his voice.

Hank rubs at his his eyes. “I’m getting real tired of fighting you at every damn turn,” he says wearily. “I’m taking you back to the hotel. I have somewhere to be today.”

“You’re leaving me alone?” Connor asks, the surprised look on his face making him look years younger.

Hank packs up the gun in its case, locking it. “No, you’ll be with Markus. I won’t be gone for long.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find out why the cops haven’t caught this asshole yet,” Hank says, holding the range door open for Connor, shielding him all the way to the car waiting for them on the curb.

 

There’s a reason Hank had quit being a cop, and only some of it had to do with being a new father.

“Maybe if you assholes did your jobs instead of sitting on your asses all day, I wouldn’t have to come down here for a shake up,” he shouts, pushed too far after being ignored for the third time.

“Sir, if you don’t calm down I’m going to have to remove you from-”

“Fucking _try_ ,” Hank spits, taking a step towards the officer.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Someone bellows.

The officer jerks back, lifting his hands up. “Captain Fowler, this man here is asking us about the Stern investigation-”

Hank turns around, facing the Captain, eyeing him up and down. “You in charge here?”

“I am,” the Captain says, giving Hank an equally displeased look. “We don’t discuss our cases with reporters, get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not a fuckin journo,” Hank snarls, pulling out his licence. “I’m part of Connor Stern’s security detail, and I’d like to know why I needed to put my client into lockdown while you people sit around with your thumbs up your asses!”

Captain Fowler raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and then jerks his head towards the back of the bullpen.

“Follow me to my office, we can talk there.”

To Fowler’s credit he does run a background check on Hank, calling the SecureLife offices to confirm Hank indeed is Connor’s personal bodyguard.

“I understand your frustration,” Fowler says, tapping something on his keyboard. “But the fact is we have no leads. Whoever this guy is, he’s doing a good job at disguising his trails.”

“Did you get the footage from the club?” Hank asks, shifting restlessly in his seat. Being in a police station makes him antsy like nothing else, the smells and sounds the same no matter what state he’s in. Part of him misses it - mostly he hates it, too many bad memories of the bullshit he had to deal with before he’d quit the force.

“They’re giving us the run-around about the warrant, but we’re working on it. Hopefully we can serve it tomorrow morning.”

Hank groans, running a hand through his hair. “And the janitor?”

“Background check turned up a stolen identity. After he left the building he vanished like a ghost. Hasn’t been to work since.”

Fowler clicks around on his computer, and then turns the monitor around to show Hank a blurry still from a security camera. With the man’s cap pulled low over his face, there’s not much to discern, except that he’s medium build and caucasian.

“That’s perfect,” Hank says sarcastically, standing up. “So what’s next?”

Fowler shrugs. “Not much we can do. Hopefully the club’s security footage gives us something - if not, we can only wait.”

Hank’s stomach roils. “Wait for him to make another attempt at contact,” he says slowly.

Fowler nods. “We can’t magic evidence out of thin air, Mr Anderson,” he says, voice tinged with annoyance. “And you coming down here to harass my staff isn’t going to help motivate them.”

Hank freezes. “Are you telling me the speed of the investigation depends on how much of an attitude I give you?” He snarls. “Jesus fuck, this is why I quit the force, the kind of dirty-”

Fowlery surges to his feet, slamming a palm down on his desk. “That’s enough! As a former detective you should know there’s only so much we can do with this kind of evidence.” He takes a breath, lowering his voice. “And I’m saying that you bothering the officers here _is not going to help_. Go protect your client, we’ll call Mr Manfred when he have something.”

Hank glowers at him for a moment, and then gives a frustrated sound before storming out, not being careful about slamming the door behind him. People stare at him as he passes through the precinct, only pausing to calm his breathing when he’s standing outside in the parking lot.

“That was stupid,” he says to himself, bracing his arms against the roof of his car. He hadn’t meant to lose it like that. He knows what the job is like, how much sitting around and waiting is sometimes required. But when it comes to Connor he finds himself lost and doing things completely out of character. He’s never once let himself get too close to a client. There are rules to what he does. Don’t get involved. Sure as fuck never fall in love.

A wave of dizziness washes over him. Is that what he’s doing? Falling for Connor?

He thinks of Connor, a crying mess, trying to kiss Hank. Of Connor at the range, jumpy with adrenaline, his slim body pressed against Hank’s chest. He thinks of the Connor he saw the club, that awful role he’d put on, and how nauseous it had made Hank.

He thinks of Connor, of how he insulates himself from the rest of the world, how he uses his loneliness like a shield.

Connor, drunk and lost, looking at him, begging him to stay.

“Fuck,” Hank breathes, leaning his forehead against the sun-warmed glass of the window and stares into his own ghostly reflection.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

 

He’s in a mood when he gets back to the hotel. It gets progressively worse when he realises Connor isn’t in the room. He shoves down the panic that wells in him and calls the front desk, demanding to know where his client has gone.

“He’s at the gym, sir. We sent some hotel security with him, I assure you-”

Hank swears and throws the phone in the receiver, and rides the elevator down.

Connor is flat on his back, doing crunches when Hank barges in, kicking out the strange security with a few barked orders. He doesn’t miss the side-eye the man gives him, but he’s too angry to care.

“Why do you insist on pulling this shit on me?” He asks, leaning down to grab Connor’s arm and pulling him up.

Connor frowns, freeing himself carefully. His face is flushed and shiny with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Working out keeps me calm, you know that. Nothing’s gonna happen to me here at the hotel, the security is very good,” Connor says, and he has the nerve to act like Hank’s the irrational one here.

“Get your ass into the elevator,” Hank growls, propelling Connor towards the door.

“But I’m sweaty!”

“Last time I checked you have a bathroom the size of an average living room in your suite,” Hank snaps, grabbing Connor’s things and following him. “Now move it!”

Maybe putting himself in a cramped elevator with a sweaty, panting Connor wasn’t the wisest choice to make. Hank is uncomfortably aware of the scent of sweat on Connor, and he wants nothing more than to bury his face in the crook of Connor’s neck and _lick_.

 _Bad. This is bad_ , he thinks.

 

“I wasn’t trying to piss you off, by the way,” Connor says once he steps out of the bathroom. He’s dressed in a grey tee-shirt and black boxers, and honest-to-god bunny slippers.

He reaches up to dry his hair with his towel, and the shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Hank turns away, ignoring the curl of want in his belly.

“Half the time you manage it anyway,” Hank grumbles, grabbing his book and settling in a chair.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says miserably, and Hank groans internally.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. We’re both a little tense,” he says, tone conciliatory.

Connor perches on the arm of Hank’s chair, pale, slender thighs on display, and Hank moves the book to lay on his lap.

“What did the police say?”

Hank sighs, folding his glasses into his pocket. “Not much. They’re trying to get the footage from the club, but they want a warrant.”

Connor hums, and then reaches for his phone. Hank watches him dial, and while it rings Connor stands up and starts walking towards his room. Hank tries not to stare too hard at the way the fabric of his boxers hugs at the swell of his ass. He shouldn’t be looking at all, but it’s as though something in him has resigned completely after his little revelation in the parking lot.

And anyway, he’s just looking. What harm could it do?

“Hello? This is Connor Stern, I think I have a mutually beneficial-”

The door clicks shut, and Hank is left alone to deal with the beginnings of his arousal. He puts his glasses back on and tries to concentrate on the book.

Connor emerges sometime later, a smug smile on his face.

“They’ll give us the footage, on the condition that only Markus, me, you, and the lead detective get to see it,” he says, tossing his phone on the sofa. He’s wearing sweats now, to Hank’s relief.

“And what kind of a deal did you make with the devil?” Hank says snidely. Connor reaches over to flip his glasses down his nose in retaliation.

“I said I’d make an Instagram post with a picture of myself, at the club. After all this is over, of course,” he adds hastily at the look on Hank’s face.

“You don’t have an Instagram,” Hank points out. Connor shrugs.

“I’ll make one. Markus has been hounding me about it for months, he’ll be happy.”

 

Turns out Markus is not happy, but it has nothing to do with social media.

Connor is in bed, Hank reading a trashy crime novel in the living room, when Markus knocks and then enters.

“Is Connor up?” He asks, and Hank shakes his head, pointing towards the closed bedroom door. Markus knocks on it, and then disappears inside, and soon they both emerge, Connor looking sleep-addled and mussed. Hank has a sudden, fierce urge to hold him.

“What’s going on?” Hank asks sitting up on the sofa and putting his book down. The look on Markus’s face doesn’t bode well.

“We got a new email,” he says, handing Connor a tablet.

Connor sits down next to Hank, and together they read the short message.

“ _Can you feel me? I’m so close, I think I can feel you,_ ” it says. Attached is a picture of the hotel, time stamped at sunset the same evening.

Connor exhales, resting the tablet on his knees.

“Josh couldn’t get anything out of it,” Markus says quietly. “Nothing in the metadata of the picture, IP routed again.”

“This is bullshit,” Hank snarls. “How is this guy getting away with this?”

“The hotel security is going through the cameras outside. I’ll let you know when I hear something,” Markus says, trying to calm Hank down.

“I talked to the investigators about your theory. That the “crazy nutcase” angle is just to throw us off. They agree.” He gives Connor a look. “Which means this guy is more methodical than we thought. And more dangerous.”

Connor looks at Hank, surprised. “You didn’t tell me this.”

Hank shrugs. “I didn’t want to mess with your head just because I had a hunch.”

“A hunch? Isn’t this what you’re good at?” Connor says angrily, standing up. “This is my life, by the way, in case the two of you forgot,” he spits out.

Markus raises his hands up. “Look, I wanted to talk to the cops first,” he says apologetically. Connor begins to argue, but Hank refuses to bend over.

“There was no point in freaking you out,” he says, raising his voice over Markus and Connor. “You’ve been all over the fucking place lately, I didn’t want to derail you further-”

“Oh, fuck you!”

Markus steps between them. “That’s enough! Both of you, to you rooms,” he says, and it has the intended effect of draining out some of the tension in the room.

Hank folds his arms over his chest, glaring at a flower arrangement.

Markus moves to stand next to Connor, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you going to be okay? I can stay if you’d like.”

Connor hesitates, but then shakes his head. “No, I’ll be safe here. Not like anyone can reach this floor. I just want to go back to bed,” he says, tone tight.

Markus nods reluctantly. “Call me if you need anything,” he says, giving Connor a tight hug. Hank envies him a little.

“Need a drink?” Hank asks once Markus has left.

Connor shakes his head, glaring mulishly at him for a moment, before he seems to deflate, collapsing back onto the sofa.

“This is fucking crazy,” he says, making a frustrated gesture. “I keep thinking… this can’t be actually real. It was one thing when he was just sending those emails, but now…”

Hank rubs his back gently, his temper mellowing slowly in the face of Connor’s vulnerability. “I know. It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Connor looks at him silence. “What if he did try something? What if he did come at me?”

“I’d protect you,” Hank says simply, hitching up a shoulder. “It’s why I’m here.”

“Would you risk your life for me?” Connor asks, and there’s something in his eyes that gives Hank a pause. When he answers, he measures his words carefully.

“You know I would. It’s the chance I take every time I accept a job.”

“But I can tell you not to do it, right?” Connor says, and Hank knows where this is going, and he doesn’t like it.

“I set the rules, right? So, if I tell you to not-”

Hank lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s not how it works, Connor. The client comes first.”

Connor flinches, and then turns to stare at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.

“I didn’t realise that’d be the price I might have to pay,” he says quietly. “I thought you’d be an inconvenience for a while - when you first showed up. And that you’d be gone soon. I never thought I’d be putting anyone else’s life danger.”

“It’s my own damn choice,” Hank says firmly. “My ex wife keeps telling me I’m an idiot, but…” he shrugs.

Connor looks at him, mouth parted in surprise. “You were married?”

Hank laughs, leaning back against the sofa. “Once upon a time. Different life,” he says, waving it away. “I have a kid, too. Cole,” he says, smiling, and shows Connor a picture on his phone.

“Oh. I didn’t know,” Connor says quietly. He looks guilty as he stares at the picture of Cole, dressed in a blue sweater and already looking like a spitting image of Hank, gap-toothed and all.

“I guess… I haven’t really asked a lot about you. I’ve been selfish.”

Hank gives him a regarding look. “Connor, you’re one of the most tightly closed off people I’ve met in my life,” he says wearily. “And that’s saying something. I’m not insulted that you haven’t offered to share family photos.”

Hank watches Connor do that thing again, where he seems to withdraw into someplace distant, everything on his face and his body language becoming shuttered.

Hank sighs, too tired to deal with this now. “Go to sleep.”

Connor nods and stands up. Halfway through the room he pauses.

“Where does your son live?”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “In Australia. His mother does charity work there, and her new husband… fuck, I forget. Plumbing?”

Connor nods slowly. “Do you see him often?”

Hank closes his eyes, weary. “No. But I will. In five weeks.”

When he opens his eyes, Connor’s gone, his bedroom door falling shut.

 

Hank stays up a little longer, going over the emails pertaining to the investigation that Markus has sent him. It makes him wish he was a cop still, even though he knows he’d be nowhere near LA or Connor’s case. But he feels helpless, impotent, watching from the sidelines. At least if he was still a detective he could do something useful.

He sends a message to Addy, and gets a picture of Cole, mouth full of french fries.

“ _Everything okay?_ ”

“ _Fine,_ ” he sends back. “ _Just a long day. I’m going to bed, tell him I love him._ ”

“ _He loves you too._ ”

 

 

Hank wakes up when his bedroom door opens, light from the other room flooding in before the door closes again.

“Connor?” He says, voice gravelly with sleep, squinting at the form in the dim room.

Connor shuffles in, footsteps muffled on the carpet. He pulls up the duvet and climbs up, and Hank can only stare, slack-jawed.

“What are you doing?” He says softly, putting a hand on Connor’s arm. Connor stills, both hands and one knee on the bed. He won’t look at Hank.

“Please… I just want to sleep,” he says, voice small in the hushed darkness. It makes Hank’s chest tighten.

Hank watches him, his eyes getting used to the scarcity of light. Finally he sighs, shifting towards the other side of the bed.

“Alright,” he finally says, and Connor lets out a hitched breath, sliding under the covers with him.

Cool fingers brush Hank’s bare shoulder, and then, encouraged, Connor shifts closer. Unable to deny him a thing, Hank extends his arm so Connor can move in, his head coming to rest on Hank’s chest. Hank can feel his every breath, hot on his sleep-warm skin.

Connor fits himself against the curve of Hank’s side, and keeps his hands to himself. Their bodies touch at too many points for Hank to count, but he can’t stop thinking about how well they slot together.

He feels the flutter of Connor’s lashes against his skin.

“Will you come back?” Connor asks quietly. “After you see your son?”

Hank huffs, turning his head until his nose brushes at the soft hair at the top of Connor’s head.

“Yes. I still have a job here.”

“Would you stay with me? Permanently.”

Hank closes his eyes, breathing steadily. He’s known this was coming. All of Connor’s insecurities and his loneliness and desire to be loved, bundled up into one needy gift that Hank wants so badly to accept.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he murmurs. It hurts more than it should, and that’s how he knows it’s the right thing to do.

Connor doesn’t reply, but Hank can tell from the tension in him and the shallowness of his breath that he’s still awake.

“You think this is just because- because you’re the only person I spend more time with than Markus,” Connor says eventually, voice frail at the edges.

“Yes. I think I’m the first person around you who’s not pretending to like you for your fame. I don’t think you know what you want.”

“I hate you,” Connor says, pain in his voice.

“I know. You can join the club. I think they’ve got jackets.”

“If you go away… and when you come back, I still want you. Will you stay?”

Hank exhales through his nose, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Connor. He can see him clearer now, even with barely any light.

“I won’t work for you. If - and I don’t want you to get your hopes you - if that’s how it goes, I can’t protect you. You need someone who can stay objective.”

Hank hasn’t been objective about this for a long time. He places a hand on the dip of Connor’s waist, over the covers.

“But it won’t go like that,” he adds gently. “Because you’ll spend time away from me and realise you don’t want a 50-year-old in your bed.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Connor whispers. “I’ve wanted you since the day you walked into Markus’s office.”

Hank’s breath catches, his hand tightening on Connor’s waist.

There’s a rustle of sheets, Connor’s pale face looming close, and then the press of dry lips against his. This time he doesn’t push Connor away but lets himself be kissed. Connor’s mouth moves against his, soft and sweet, Connor’s nose pressed against his cheek, his breath warm over Hank’s lips. It’s almost chaste, the slow slide of their mouths, Connor taking what he needs and Hank allowing it.

Eventually Connor pulls away, resting his head on the pillow. Hank presses a kiss to his brow, and lays himself down.

He falls asleep, Connor tucked safely against his chest.

 

 

The other side of the bed is cold when he wakes up. He can tell it’s early from the quality of light flowing in from the window, and he rolls over to grab his phone. 5:30, his screen tells him.

He groans his way out of bed, pulling on a tee shirt, and heads out to look for Connor. He finds him in the office, curled up on a chair, chin propped up on one hand as he browses something on the computer.

“Did you get any sleep?” Hank asks, leaning against the door jamb.

Connor startles and turns to look at him. He looks like a mess, his hair in disarray and dark circles under his eyes. His jaw is red from where it’s been resting against his palm.

“Not much. A little. Thank you.” He offers Hank a wan smile.

“Room service?”

Connor nods. “Pancakes. And so much bacon I can drown myself in the grease,” he says tiredly.

Hank laughs, heading to call the front desk.

 

After breakfast Hank gets a call from Markus, and when Hank answers his greeting gets cut short.

“Get your shit packed and tell Connor to do the same,” Markus says, voice rushed. Hank can hear footsteps, recognises the sound of a hotel security keycard being used.

Hank glances at Connor who’s going through a new script a studio has suggested to him.

“The security feed was disabled,” Markus says, voice pitched low. “We’re moving Connor somewhere safer. I’m on my way up.”

“Fuck,” Hank says, shoving his phone in his pocket. Connor looks at him, a question written across his face.

“Markus. The hotel might not be safe. Get your things, we’re leaving.”

Connor jolts up, giving Hank one last alarmed look before disappearing into his room. Hank holsters his gun and grabs the few things he absolutely needs - everything else can be brought later if necessary.

Connor seems to have the same thought, emerging from his bedroom with just a battered shoulder bag and wearing his coat.

Hank goes to him, gripping his shoulders. “It’s okay,” he says, giving Connor a reassuring smile.

The door opens, Markus peering in. “You guys ready?”

Connor looks at Hank, and nods.

 

“The LAPD has allowed us to use one of their safehouses until we figure out a better solution,” Markus says as they ride the elevator. “I think it’s better if we skip town,” he says darkly.

“What about the movie?” Connor asks, looking poleaxed, and for the umpteenth time Hank wants to shake some sense into him.

“Fuck the movie, they can sue us if they want, but it’s not worth risking your life,” Markus spits, tone hard in a way Hank’s never heard on him.

The elevator stops in the basement, Hank paranoid as they walk the long hallway towards the private car park. Their footsteps echo around them as they hurry, Hank holding up the rear while Markus leads the way, Connor safely between them.

The SUV has been brought ready, a valet standing by it, waiting. Markus strides up to him and grabs the keys.

“I specifically said that no one was to be down here, get your ass out of here before-”

There’s a set of footsteps behind them, and Hank turns, every inch of him coiled tight. It’s one of the hotel security detail, and Hank recognises him from Connor’s impromptu visit to the gym.

“Mr Manfred,” the guard says, jogging towards them. “The police are calling, they claim it’s urgent.”

Later, when asked why he reacted the way he did, Hank can only offer what he saw - the man’s eyes were on Connor, not Markus.

It shouldn’t be red flag, people staring at Connor, even after getting used to him staying at the hotel. His celebrity status acts like the draw of a magnet.

Maybe it’s just his paranoia. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe he saw something else, something that only his lizard brain registered.

It doesn’t matter. He throws himself in front of Connor, reaching for his pistol, when a shot rings out.

Something slams into his lower back and he crumples down, taking Connor with him.

 _Protect Connor_ , loops through his head, over and over. He can feel Connor struggling underneath him, can hear yelling as he gasps for breath through the pain.

“Get Connor out of here,” he tries to shout to whoever listens. Markus is yelling, and Hank thinks he’s calling for help. Help that is too far away.

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor cries out, and Hank uses his remaining energy to reach for his gun.

It’s not there. He can’t find it. Did he drop it, did he get them both killed in his ineptitude, how could he be so fucking stupid-

Another shot, and he feels it in his shoulder blade, a blinding pain like a hot poker sinking into him.

“Connor, you have to go,” he grunts out, his vision turning dark at the edges as he tries to lift his weight up, to give Connor a chance to escape.

He feels Connor move, pinned under Hank’s bulk, and then something explodes next to his ear once, and then three more times.

Everything turns to black.

 


	4. Epilogue

He wakes up to silence.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Something pulls at his side, a dull, throbbing ache.

Everything hurts, at first. As he finally gets the hang of breathing normally, the pain pinpoints itself to his right side and shoulder.

He opens his eyes slowly, staring at the white ceiling.

He recognises the antiseptic smell. He’s in a hospital. He looks to his left, and there’s a stack of monitors, quietly tracking his vitals.

He looks to his right.

Connor sleeps in a chair, resting his head on his arms folded over the bed.

Hank’s limbs feel like lead, but he lifts his hand, slowly sinking his fingers into Connor’s soft hair. He strokes along the dome of Connor’s scalp, finding it comforting.

Connor’s okay. Connor’s alive.

There’s a sudden inhale, and Connor jerks awake, lifting his head and staring at him with wild-eyes.

“Hank,” he breathes.

“Hey, kid,” Hank croaks out, and Connor scooches close, grabbing his hand.

“You’re awake,” Connor says, relief evident in his voice.

Hank wants to say something sassy in return, but his throat isn’t quite working. Connor hands him a mug and helps him sip tepid water, Hank grimacing at the taste of it in his cotton-filled mouth.

“What happened?” He asks, trying to curl his weak fingers around Connor’s.

“You took a bullet for me. Twice,” Connor says, his brown eyes wide and red-rimmed. “And then I shot him.”

Hank stares at him, waiting for his brain to catch up.

“You did what?”

Connor looks at him, hard and unashamed.

“I shot him. With your gun. He was going to kill you.”

Silence follows. Hank can’t look away from Connor, taking in the look on his face.

“Is he alive?”

Connor nods, fingers tightening around Hank’s. Hank lets out a relieved breath. It’s not something he’d ever forgive himself for allowing Connor to shoulder, the responsibility of taking a life.

A moment passes, Connor’s thumb rubbing circles into Hank’s palm.

Finally Connor speaks.

“The first bullet pierced your liver and was stopped by your rib. The second one sank into your clavicle,” he says, voice thick. “You were… You were so lucky.”

Hank watches him, the way he won’t quite look at Hank, staring at their joined hands instead.

Connor sniffs, reaching into his pocket for a tissue.

“Your son and ex-wife are getting on a flight tomorrow,” he continues. “I paid for the tickets. Not that they wanted me to,” he laughs, shakey.

“Connor-” Hank starts, but Connor shakes his head, the stupid lock of errant hair flopping over his brow.

“It’s the least I could do.”

Hank wants so badly to touch him more, but he can’t make his weakened body obey him.

“I guess you could say we’re even now” Connor murmurs, reaching out to brush a strand of hair off Hank’s temple.

The correct thing - the _right_ thing to do is to stay quiet. To take his salary and walk away and lick his wounds in peace.

That’s not what he wants though. He wants to touch Connor, wants to feel all of him, alive and vibrant. Wants to tear down all of Connor’s defences and force his way in and never leave.

Connor stands up, leaning over to press a kiss to Hank’s brow.

“Thank you. For everything,” he says, his brown eyes tender.

“Don’t-” Hank chokes out, gripping his hand around Connor’s weakly, refusing to let go. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Connor asks, but by now Hank knows him better than this, knows that the only way Connor will ever let him in is if he never lets him walk away in the first place.

“Just stay,” he says, voice gruff. Already he can feel exhaustion overwhelm him, dragging him back towards sleep. He fights it, clinging to where his palm is pressed against Connor’s, imagining he can feel Connor’s pulse against his own.

He doesn’t give in until he feels Connor sit back down, his cool fingers brushing across Hank’s temple.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The weather is perfect.

Hank watches Cole wade into the sea, squealing as the waves hit him and running back to the shore. The foams chase him, all the way to Hank, Cole wrapping himself around his legs, as though scared the water will carry him out to the sea.

“I’m cold, can we go get a hot-dog?” Cole asks, peering around at Hank.

Hank leans down, reaching to lift his son into his arms, ignoring the sting of his wounds.

“Whatever you want, kiddo,” he says. He carries Cole all the way to the car, buckling him in tight.

“Are you _really_ gonna stay?” Cole asks, fidgeting in his seat.

Hank gives him a smile, putting the car into gear.

“For a while. Not forever, but long enough for you to get sick of me,” he jokes, and Cole grins at him, gap-toothed and happy.

They find a hot-dog stand in town, Cole wolfing his down, smearing condiments all over his face. Hank cleans him up, and then buys him an ice-cream, and together they walk to the park. The Australian spring weather suits Hank fine, not too hot yet, and he can wear loose shirts that don’t drag over his still-healing scars.

A loose dog bounds over to them, following a stray ball, and Cole asks its owner politely for permission to pet him. His face splits to a grin as the dog licks at his face, overjoyed by the attention. Cole falls onto the soft grass, giggling, his hands buried in the dog’s fluffy fur.

Hank’s heart has never felt so light.

 

He’s has never been a fan of airports, but when he’s directed through the lounge to the tarmac, something giddy wells up in him.

Hank watches the private jet taxi in from a distance. It feels like a lifetime, watching it come to a slow stop, the ground personnel guiding it with measured gestures.

His heart nearly stops beating when the door finally opens, slowly folding down and out, stairs extending towards the ground.

He counts seconds, and then minutes, his fingernails digging half-moons into his palms.

Connor seems to spot him the moment he steps out. He pauses, and then lets go of his luggage, letting it tumble down the stairs while he takes them three at a time, and then he’s running, and Hank is moving too, taking three huge strides until Connor is colliding into him, nearly sending them sprawling onto the tarmac.

Hank wraps his arms around Connor, and Connor buries his face in the curve of Hank’s neck, letting out a small sound. Hank is content to stand there, under the eyes of the men in visibility vests giving them looks while Connor clings to him. His heart is beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs, and it only calms down once Connor steps back, looking at him with those brown eyes of his, open and guileless.

“I got a call on the plane,” Connor says, and Hank can’t stop taking him in, every freckle and wrinkle and all the small things that make him so goddamn perfect.

“There’s a delay with the budget,” Connor continues, sliding his hands down Hank’s chest.

“The production won’t start until late next month.”

Hank hums, letting a hand slide down to the dip of Connor’s back.

“How inconvenient,” he says, tone insincere, and Connor smiles, bright like the sun.

 

There’s no penthouse hotel room. No room service, no security, no paparazzi, no adoring fans.

All there is is Hank’s small rental house, facing a paved street, backing a sparse forest. Sometimes there’s a fat koala that comes by, perching on the fence and honking politely until Hank wakes up and wanders into the backyard to marvel at it.

There’s no koala this morning. All there is is the cool spring morning weather, kept at bay by the soft press of Connor’s lips on his skin, by the curl of his fingers in the grey hair on Hank’s chest.

“Take it easy,” Hank gasps as Connor’s touch brushes past the scar on his side, still raised and angry red.

“Poor baby,” Connor says, resting his chin on the swell of Hank’s belly. He looks ridiculous like this, his hair longer than usual, tousled from sleep. There’s a pink line on his cheek from where the pillow case has left its mark, but the curve of his lips is full and sweet. Hank can’t resist the urge the trace a finger over them. Doesn’t have to, here.

Connor parts his mouth, pink tongue darting out to lap at the pad of Hank’s fingers, his eyes shining with joy. Hank laughs deep in his chest when Connor darts down and pulls the sheet over his head, nosing at Hank’s boxers.

Hank reaches down, pushing the sheet down.

“Hey,” he says, peering down at Connor, his heart singing. “I want to see you.”

“What if I’m shy?” Connor says, pressing a kiss to Hank’s inner thigh.

“Tough shit, I have bullet holes to use against you. These babies are gonna give me pity points to last for _months_.”

Connor laughs, shoving the sheets away, the exposed curves of his body bared to Hank, on gorgeous display. Hank drinks in the sight, a starved man.

“Come here,” he grunts, and Connor obeys, slithering up Hank’s body like something out of a dream, slotting his mouth over Hank’s.

It’s not like last night, when they’d been desperate and hungry for each other. The nervousness is gone too, the stress of their first time swallowed up by the need to learn each other’s bodies. And Hank is a good student, his palms mapping out the contours of Connor’s slim body, every hard swell of muscle and bone, every wrinkle and mole and scar.

He slides his hands down to cup the swell of Connor’s ass, savouring the way Connor bucks against him, whining eagerly.

Hank tangles his legs with Connor’s, trapping him against him, and Connor laughs into the kiss, breathy and full of joy. He lets out of a soft squeal when Hank rolls them over and pins him down, his hips pressed against Connor’s, their erections sliding against one another. He heaves out a breath, lips brushing the shell of Connor’s ear, and Connor shivers against him.

“In a hurry?” Hank asks, teeth teasing at the skin of Connor’s shoulder, dusted with freckles.

Connor’s fingers brush over the swell of the scar on his shoulder blade, as light as the touch of his lips over Hank’s stubbled cheek.

“Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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